Luminol
by SierraSilver
Summary: Ema Skye recieves her forensic test results...and isn't too pleased. I don't own the characters


The mailman was late.

It was 3:01, and the mailman was late. By one minute, of course, but he was still late, scientifically speaking.

Her sister however, was not. Ema had felt quite awkward leading Lana around her cramped apartment, amidst attempting to boil water with the stove turned off, locate where she'd hidden the teabags for this particular occasion, and futilely trying to contain her excitement. And finally, after numerous frantic apologies, Lana had seated herself in an inexpensive wooden chair, sipping lukewarm water, while the younger sibling furiously dashed outside, completely forgetting the small fact that tea did not find or make itself, and returned forlornly, seeing no sign of the signature brown van.

The mailman was late.

"Relax, Ema…just be patient…"

"I _can't_ be patient! I've been being patient since I was _four_! I'm tired of waiting!!!"

Lana just smiled.

Ema just sulked.

The mailman was late. She ought to call and complain.

"I'm sorry, but unless you can present evidence stating that he must come at exactly 1500 hours, I can't accept your complaint…."

It was frustrating having a prosecutor for an older sister.

"But he's _always_ here at three! Even when there was that impossible blizzard, he _still_ came!!"

Lana regarded her with skepticism.

Ema paced, shoes practically digging holes into the carpet.

The mailman was late. Maybe he'd lost her letter.

"I doubt that. It is extremely unlikely that a lost letter would cause him to be late…"

"But it's _my_ letter! He _must_ have noticed and gone to look for it!!"

Not a very scientifically-based conclusion, but Ema wanted her forensics test results too badly to consider that.

"I'm sure he'll be here eventually, Ema…."

The mailman was late. Maybe-

The sound of a vehicle abruptly stopping pulled Ema away from her rant.

Lana sighed as she watched the door open and close in less than a second, open and close again less than five seconds later.

She had practiced opening envelopes slowly, careful not to leave any trace, any sign that the mail had been read, but this time…

*RIP*

And there it was.

That paper. The page that she'd wanted for so long to see, to touch, to know that it was hers.

And there it wasn't.

Ema checked the name on the envelope. She donned her soda bottle glasses. She squinted. She checked the envelope again. She took off the glasses. She closed her eyes for five seconds and stared at the tiny fibers.

She burst into tears.

Faster than Ema had run to receive the letter, Lana was by her side, examining the paper.

She checked the name on the envelope. She squinted. She checked the name again.

She crumpled the paper and threw it away.

"Ema…"

It was awkward, being invited to the apartment after almost nine years apart, and to have it end like this…

"M-My…Dream…."

Ema wrenched the note from the empty snackoo bags and discarded fake blood samples.

There were hands gently taking the evil words away, trying to clear them from her mind.

"NO!" she screamed violently, jerking the rejection back, crumpling it further.

"Ema….you're only going to make it worse…"

"What could be worse than _this_!?!?" she wasn't crying anymore. The screams had overpowered the emotion of sadness.

"It's not as bad as you think….you're still young…."

Lana was trying to console someone inconsolable, to revive someone who was dead inside.

"Not as bad?!?! _Not as BAD_?!?!"

"Maybe this can be a good thing…maybe you should investigate your other interests…maybe you'd prefer a different career…"

There were plenty of maybes in the world. Ema however, did not stop to think that 'maybe' she could have restrained herself. 'Maybe' her actions weren't necessary. 'Maybe', Lana was right.

But she was over the edge. And falling fast.

Without a second thought, she lifted her trusty Luminol, and sprayed it. Directly into her sister's eyes.

And then she turned and ran.

Having only recently returned to the city of Los Angeles, Ema was no longer familiar with the topography. In fact, very little time had passed before she regretted her decision to flee from her own apartment, leaving her possibly blinded older sister to call 911, in a house in which few essential objects, the phone for example, were exposed. And as the sky gradually darkened, and the streets filled with ominous shadows, Ema began to fear that this was one situation she WOULDN'T make it out of. Already, figures cloaked in the darkness of night began to descend upon her, and she was reminded eerily of the horror/science films she had poured over as a child, utterly fascinated.

She did not wish to be reminded of such things, especially after the events of 3:05 PM that day.

As she had stated previously, from the age of four years, the field of forensic science had been MORE than a simple hobby, MORE than her brief interests in crocheting, or the game of soccer. It had been her life, her dream, her only goal.

And now, she was left goalless, dreamless, lifeless amidst the shadows and colored lights, as the prowlers descended.

They moved closer, mirroring her movements, until she was sure that someone lurked behind her in the darkness, waiting for the chance to strike, like a lone eagle circling its prey. She had no doubts that tomorrow, SHE would be the name on the coroner's report, the person that the forensic scientists investigated. And Ema Skye would not be among them, not only due to the fact that her heart would not be beating, but also as a result of having failed the examination that would put her among the investigators.

She could hear the footsteps that echoed off of the sidewalk, and spent her probable last minutes wondering if she were to be killed on the spot, or transported to another location first, which might interfere with the investigation.

The evil was growing closer, closer, until she finally stopped. Running would do no good. And she had nothing left to live for.

And then she turned around.

It was odd, she had never before heard of or seen a street hawker with what seemed to be such a cheerful demeanor. Or a sky blue beanie.

"Come to listen to the piano? Or play poker…?"

It was only after hearing his voice that she recognized him. And the yellow pin/camera.

"Mr.….Mr. Wright?"

"I'll take that as poker."

He motioned for her to enter, not seeming to show any recognition of her identity, though she hadn't changed in appearance nearly as much as he had.

But what puzzled her most was the absence of his attorney's badge…

Ema had learned to play poker roughly around the time that Lana had become a prosecutor. With hectic hours, and little time spent at home, Ema had begun carrying a deck of cards wherever she went, on the chance that she would be there a while. Though it was difficult to play the game by one's self, she either managed it, or forced some poor, confused custodian into the competition.

But her little contests were nothing compared to playing with Phoenix Wright.

Even though she remembered the rules, even though she'd been relatively good at the game before, the numbers and strategies became silt, flitting through her sieve-like brain. Maybe her slightly faulty memory was the reason she hadn't been accepted. With every card, every twitch in her demeanor that gave away her hand, she could feel herself being overpowered by him, this stranger that had lurked on the outskirts of her memory for so long, now back, and making her lose control. Slowly, she stopped seeing the symbols on the cards, as they had morphed into words. Questions. The test which she had failed with flying colors.

"Better luck next time." A flourishing full house versus her choppy hand.

She burst into tears.

Mr. Wright stared at her, completely unsure of what the best procedure would be. Life did not come as easily to him as poker did.

"Um…rematch?"

Ema shook her head, sniffling as she pushed the cards back across the table. Feeling as though he'd done something horribly wrong to his former forensic assistant, he ignored her pleas and dealt the cards.

"It's just a game."

She blinked several times, staring at the glaring blue backs of the plastic strips, tears still flowing freely.

"Th-that's n-not what's wr-wrong…" She wished her life was only a game. "I f-failed my t-test…."

Looking back later, she could think of no real reason why she would have told him, perhaps only to talk to someone about it, as it ate away at her insides, like some sort of parasite no amount of medicine could exterminate.

"Your forensics test?" He had a good memory. Or perhaps it was the lab coat. And the chemicals.

She nodded, still shaking. "I've b-been studying e-every day for n-nine years…b-but I got b-beat out by everyone h-here…and I would go b-back to Europe…but I h-have a debt to repay…to y-you…"

Phoenix had a distant look in his eyes before turning back to her, wondering what Ema could possibly mean by that.

"If you feel that you must 'repay the debt', it is still possible…" he watched her head flit upward at the mention of this.

She wasn't expecting what would come next.

"Be a detective."

She felt a flash of anger that she had received the same advice twice, or at least close to the same advice, when all she wanted was to become a forensic scientist, not a detective or a police officer or some other sub-par, inferior job. She was subconsciously reaching for her Luminol.

"It's a good job…a bit low-paying, but your sister loved it. You will too, in time."

She couldn't believe she was hearing this from him. But…he was right…her sister HAD loved that job.

It also appeared that Mr. Wright knew who she was. That was a comfort.

"You may find it to be more interesting then the lab…and it will still be a service to the community…"

That was certainly hard to imagine…but she DID want to repay that debt. And if her sister had done it…maybe it was destiny?

She stood up.

"Going somewhere so soon? We haven't finished our game…" he spoke, watching her head for the exit.

"Maybe later, Mr. Wright…I think I may have blinded my sister for nothing…"

And with that, she was gone, flying out the door, presumably to the emergency room.

"…Glad I could help…" he mumbled, returning upstairs for another grueling piano song.

But Ema Skye was going to be a detective. So maybe the piano wasn't so bad after all…


End file.
